


promise to stay alive for the night

by blueaces



Category: NCT (Band), WAYV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Small Town, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood and Injury, For the most part, M/M, Minor Character Death, Minor Violence, Murder Mystery, also kinda dramatic lol, guanheng is a struggling writer yeah that's important
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-14
Updated: 2019-10-14
Packaged: 2020-12-09 02:04:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20987015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueaces/pseuds/blueaces
Summary: Guanheng just wants to see something new. So what if that comes in the form of a murder shaking the little town he resides in?





	promise to stay alive for the night

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt #W270
> 
> I kinda drifted a littleee aways from the original prompt but I hope the prompter doesn't mind too much!  
Note: What's in parentheses is the book Guanheng is currently working on. Paragraphs in italics are news reports. Everything is related to each other!  
Also I wasn't sure how to tag this so just an fyi there is a small torture scene near the end but it includes info to understand the story so if that bothers you, please skip, I tried not to make it too graphic

(“Drink up. I know you're thirsty.”

Jaehyun smiles up at him, thirty-two perfect white teeth forming a perfect straight smile, two canines peeking out over the bottom row. The offered glass in his hand is three quarters of the way full, artificially orange and still swirling, as if Jaehyun had finished stirring the powdered substance mere seconds ago.

“I do need the electrolytes.”

With a wink, Johnny grabs the drink and downs it in four gulps. Jaehyun counts each gulp by the bobbing of his Adam’s apple. _Up. Down. Up. Down. Up. Down. Up. Down. _Some trickles past the corners of Johnny's mouth, and Jaehyun’s thumb flies to wipe at it before bringing the digit to his own mouth. He takes it in while Johnny watches, tongue circulating and sucking hard, obscene noises filling their kitchen for ten beats of Johnny's heart. Jaehyun counts.

Johnny swallows. Once. In a strained voice, “Is that really necessary right now?”

Making sure to scrap his pointed canines over the thumb, he pops it out and brings it over to rest on Johnny's lips, saliva slowly beginning to drip on to him. All for show. “Of course, darling. I have to make sure the drink was up to your standards. Rest now, I’m sure you’ve had a hard day at work.”

With the new embezzlement case involving one of the biggest companies in Korea, Johnny has been staying at the firm longer into the night, and Jaehyun knows it’s slowly eating away at him. Nodding, Johnny doesn’t fight it and makes to the staircase, stopping at the last step to turn back and face Jaehyun. “Come to bed soon, alright?

Jaehyun waves him off, endeared as always. “I’ll be up in a few, don’t stay up.” Five minutes to wash the cup and other dishes in the sink and watch the water roll from the drying rack back into the sink while keeping track of the bushes moving with the breeze of someone’s hand shifting the stems into place.)

Dizzying. The blinking light of his open laptop becomes warped through the slanted view of his glasses on the table, tinted red on one lens. Fifty-six flashes of blue becoming purple passes by and on the fifty-seventh, Guanheng reaches over for the glasses, pointer finger smearing the red to smudges at the rounds of the lens. With clearer vision, he can see the dreary weather of the day peeking out of the blinds of his window, shadows of clouds drifting past as if they held all the worries of the people of Crooked Hills, heavy with languishment. Dots of rain speckle the outside glass, and Guanheng can't help but wonder if the heavens cry on this day, mourning for something he hasn't quite figured out yet.

Red still obscures the top left corner of his sight, but he pays no mind as he stands up, the headache growing ever stronger with the weight of gravity now fully upon him. Bare feet are almost silent on the rough carpet, the slight crunch accompanying him on his way to the dainty kitchen where a twenty year old teapot calls home. It's an odd piece a part of the paraphernalia Guanheng has taken such a liking to, all scattered about the house in their rightful place, snug and proper. Colors of a forest, greens and browns and yellows, dark yet filled hope, tree branches reaching out to the sky combing for that tangible piece stuttering above their arms. Around the lid, blue circles thrice, the lines visible between each stroke of the paintbrush his mother dragged across the ceramic. Their purpose, Guanheng never figured out, thinking he would have enough time to ask his mother of why the blue never touches.

But she was taken away from him on a morning mirroring the one of today's, slipping through his fingers too soon. He remembers the eerie flashing of lights ghosting over the side of her face, eyes wide open and blood seeping into the wood underneath her body. His father standing shell shocked, the handcuffs around his wrist speaking louder to Guanheng than any words could ever be. The teapot of fifteen years sits on the coffee table next to them, cerulean skies taunting of the freedom taken away from the Huang family in a single hour.

At eighteen, Guanheng writes his first novel, telling of a man who rips a knife through his wife while his son watched, gleeful in his movements until the son turns on him with his own weapon of choice, a branch torn from the young oak tree growing in their front yard. The son never whispers the whereabouts of his lost parents, the town gossiping about the boy cruelly abandoned by his mother and father. No one ever visits the home of the boy, too wary of the rumors surrounding it, the smell of rotting flesh permeating the walls only filling the nose of the remaining living being,

Age nineteen brings him fame he didn't ask for, hugging his long empty frame as if they are old friends, not knowing he hasn't been touched by warmth in three years. Twenty, and his second novel appears, a woman of high political status murdering with her own hands, people of lower ranks turning a blind eye to the crimes while money makes a nest in their pockets. She flies under the radar, but not without a watcher biding their time. Ended with a slit throat days before reelection, her assistant takes the woman's chair with a smile, blood in the beds of her nails.

Riches well beyond what twenty-one year old Guanheng knows what to do with fills his bank account, and twenty-two brings him to Crooked Hills, building a nice cottage from the foundation up near the lake on the outskirts of the small town. Twenty-three brings him to his third novel, the one currently hiding in his laptop unfinished. His editor hounds him weekly, nipping at his ankles for updates Guanheng can't provide. Frankly, he's stuck, and last night's wine induced haze was the first time in weeks he's been able to write a decent portion of the next chapter. He wouldn't tell Dejun that piece of information though, knowing he would get a sharp reprimand in return.

The tea kettle whistles, piercing and annoying, hot air streaming out hitting his awaiting hand. Blistering skin greets him, the angry red a stark contrast to the white wall background. Using his marred hand, he reaches for the jar containing the peppermint tea leaves to scoop into the teapot to steep, the sting of contact not registering in his mind.

Four hard knocks on the front door draws him away from his tea with a sigh, regrettably so. It’s no surprise Sicheng is the one with his fist raised; he’s made an awful habit of popping in every so often. Guanheng doesn’t know whether to be grateful or resentful.

Sicheng eyes the length of his body, lingering on his chest before meeting Guanheng's stare evenly. “Rough night?”

Guanheng thinks of the bottle of wine he somehow missed probably still sitting on his kitchen counter. “You could say that.”

One eyebrow raised, motioning to Guanheng’s shirt. “Is the blood yours or someone else’s?”

Guanheng looks down. Pauses. "Oh." The red turning brown around the edges runs from where his heart should be to the hem of the shirt, winding like the light blue lines of rivers on a map. "Well, how did that get there..."

"Did you go out last night?"

Shaking his head, he scratches the back of his neck. "Not that I'm aware of. Stayed in writing."

"Excellent." Sicheng brushes past him into the living room, sitting across from where his laptop laid, shaking the mouse to wake the beast. "It's probably best you did. Some kid got murdered last night. Found him by the lake."

Closing the door, Guanheng perks up at those words. Nothing interesting ever happens around here in Crooked Hills. He learned that early on in his residence. "Do the police know anything yet?"

"No, just miscellaneous details about his death, nothing of importance." He's so close to the screen of the computer, nose reflecting the soft white light with the continuous clicking of the keyboard. "Now, are you gonna come over here and show me what that little brain of yours chugged out yesterday or am I going to have to keep guessing your password?"

Sighing, Guanheng walks back to the couch to stand over Sicheng's crouched figure, one hand resting on his hip. "Only if you can give honest feedback. And if you stop pounding on the keys." 

“Pinky promise?” Guanheng stares at the finger suddenly presented to him, long and slim, fingernail perfectly trimmed. Looking directly past the pinky is a face devoid of any emotions, something not out of the ordinary from Sicheng, but seemingly out of place for the current conversation.

“You know I don’t like people who break their promises.” Sicheng tilts his head, a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, and Guanheng can't bear the stifling atmosphere making its way into the room. Cold finger meets his own warmth, with a strength so misplaced for a small appendage on a hand, startling him the slightest. When they release their hold, and Sicheng's grin glints with real mirth, Guanheng takes in a breath he didn't realize he needed.

The blood on his shirt is forgotten amid moments of giggles escaping from Sicheng at the short liven lives of Jaehyun and Johnny while he huffs out in fake exasperation, passed off as remnants of a night spent downing too many glasses of pinot noir. If there’s an instance where the scent of moist dirt fills his nostrils, he thinks of it as his mind paralleling it to the boy by the lake, body pitifully sinking into the ground to finally rest.

-

There's not much to see or do in a town like Crooked Hills, filled with people who are all there for their own unknown reasons. Everyone knows everyone and everything, so news of the dead boy spread quickly throughout the morning, whispers of who it could be caught on his walk into the main square. Sicheng left his home not too soon after he got his fill on whatever little was written in Guanheng's story (_"Are Jaehyun and Johnny going to fuck? That'd be new territory for you to discover, would it not?"_), complaining about how the market stopped selling his favorite brand of tea, and how he would have to take the hour and a half long drive into the nearest city just to obtain a bag. It reminded Guanheng of his own dwindling supply of tea and other necessities for living he rather thought were a bother, and he emptied the worn-out cloth bag of any lint and bugs taking refuge there to step into town.

"I heard it could be the Huang kid or any of his friends. No one's heard from them since last night. Gone..." Guanheng turns his head slightly in the direction of the fading words, catching a glimpse of the woman from the pharmacy and her older daughter shaking their heads. He knows there's only one group of boys he's seen messing around the fountain in the main square on his way to the market, but he can't be sure if it's the kids the woman was referring to. Guanheng usually keeps to himself, only leaving his home to wander the nearby forest and lake or coming out for the market or post office holding his occasional letter. Sometimes the sheriff, Wong Yukhei, will be sitting outside the police department, legs crossed and coffee in hand, and stop Guanheng for small talk.

Today seems to be one of those days, except instead of the huge smile always gracing his face, Yukhei sports a grimace, the corner of his lips unnaturally turned down. The cup of coffee has multiple finger indentations, like he's been gripping it then shifting the cup around when he noticed the stiffness. He still manages to give a tight smile towards Guanheng when he approaches, and he can only offer one back.

"I'm assuming you've heard the news?" Guanheng nods, and Yukhei shakes his head. "Of course you have. It's hard to keep a secret around here." It sounds like he's talking from experience if the quick twitch of his fingers are anything to go by, but Guanheng keeps his mouth shut, focusing instead on the hard lines already settling underneath Yukhei's eyes.

"Have you seen or heard anything suspicious lately? I know you're cooped in that cottage of yours all day, but on the off chance..." Yukhei trails off at the abrupt shake of Guanheng's head, not paying any mind how odd the action might be. He pretends he still can't see the dried blood trailing down the drain from the wet shirt and his insistent scrubbing or the subtle guilt he has no idea from where it sprouted from rising out beneath his fingertips.

"I should have expected as much. I'll let you continue on with your day. The town will be busy for who knows how long." Yukhei makes to walk into the department but stops with his hand clasping the doorknob and turns back enough for only the point of his nose to be seen. "If you somehow find yourself stumbling upon something you would rather not, come to me directly. I'll fix it for you as best as I can." With that, he leaves Guanheng to shoulder his cloth bag alone on the sidewalk, staring at the fake gold plaque with _police office_ embossed on it.

The rest of his trip goes without a hitch, or as much as it can with the occasional glances thrown his way, and he tries not to look down at his shirt even though he knows it's a shirt fresh out of the laundry. He knows they are only curious, and he can't blame them. Secluded author of the town coming out the morning after the only murder to be committed in over a century, Guanheng would be careful around someone like him too. In the market, he keeps his stare straight ahead, avoiding all human interaction for as long as he can, fruit and vegetables pulled into his bag bruised or not. Two tins of loose leaf tea, peppermint and black, tumble into the small basket he grabbed upon entering, sitting next to the milk, the sugary box of cereal, and toothpaste.

Satisfied he went undisturbed, he sets off for the registers at the front of the shop, where a singular TV hangs above the four check-out lines, usually on to display the news or the latest episode of a soap opera. It’s currently running the weather, _chances of cloudy skies ahead this weekend!_ then cut short by the breaking news band sliding across the screen. Everyone’s attention turns towards the loud music suddenly leaking out of the speakers, mood darkening as hurriedly as the clouds creeping into the sky.

_At 1:26 a.m. last night, a body of a boy around eighteen years of age was discovered by Crooked Hill Lake, sat underneath a tree overlooking the lake, arms folded across the chest. He was of small stature, wearing a nondescriptive black shirt and pants, stained with an unidentifiable substance. No shoes were on his person, but rather found approximately three hundred feet away from the body. Reportedly deep lacerations on his ankles, six missing teeth and pinky fingers on both hands, neither found at the scene of the crime. _

_Based off the on-scene report done by Dr. Liu, Sheriff Wong is ruling the case a homicide. No suspects are in custody at the moment. Details will be relayed in future reports as they come in._

They whisper amongst themselves as the news rolls into a separate segment about the best fruits to buy this season. Even the cashier Guanheng is lined up for has a pinched look between his eyebrows, fiddling with the ties on his apron. Guanheng clears his throat to garner his attention, and _Mark_, the nametag pinned to his chest states, blinks a couple times before attempting to smile like customer service expects him to.

“Hi! Did you find everything okay?”

Guanheng nods then tilts his head in the direction of the TV. “You know something about that?” Blame his questioning on the fact everyone seems to be so distressed, the most he’s ever seen the town, and the creative in him is ticking in interest.

The forced smile on Mark’s face drops, and he ignores Guanheng’s question in favor of scanning what little items he has. Guanheng lets him be until he’s done, handing the bills over to him, and Mark jumps at the graze of fingers, jolted into remembering who was in front of him.

Chewing on his lower lip, he begins in a low voice. “I think I might know who it could be. I haven’t heard from my friends since last night which is so unlike them and…I’m afraid it could be one of them.” Guanheng glances at the people lining up behind him, feigning ignorance, but he can see their ears twitching, listening.

He takes the change handed to him, pocketing it. “I’m sorry to hear that.” There’s no room for any other words, not with the eyes watching, so he leaves Mark fumbling to start a new transaction.

Stepping out of the store is when Guanheng realizes he should have brought an umbrella, a drizzle already settling over the town with the skies threatening more to come. He doesn’t mind, not truly. The rain is something calming, a balm for the fire raging underneath his skin, one kept at bay. An umbrella would have just been for pretense, saying _I’m just as bothered by the rain as the rest of you_. No one likes when someone sticks out like a sore thumb, unsightly and made for gawking at. He could’ve covered his face, hiding beneath the thin fabric separating him from the rest of the world.

Yet here he stands, bared for everyone who passes him by to stare, his hair beginning to stick to his forehead as the storm grows heavy, water rolling down his cheeks in droves. The town looks different through rain misted eyes, buildings sticking together and faces mixing into indistinguishable masses of paint. Swirling, words fall out of pink and black mouths, most going unheard except for the one intensely ringing in the air over and over again. _Murder._

A quiet life is all he wanted, days passing in dazes of words in worlds constructed by his own fingers. But it seems a quiet life is not what he had in mind after all.

-

(Jaehyun listens to Johnny vomiting in the bathroom down the hall, walls thin enough to hear the muffled retching through them. It’s not the first time he’s come home a little tipsy, but with clear eyes. Fine one moment then leaving their bed quietly to avoid waking up Jaehyun, emptying the contents of his stomach for fifteen, twenty seven, nineteen minutes. He’ll slide into bed, minty cool breath on Jaehyun’s neck when Johnny drapes an arm over his middle. Jaehyun doesn’t want to let it go this time.

“Are you okay?”

Johnny hums. “Must’ve been something I ate.”

Shifting around to face Johnny, Jaehyun can see the red in his eyes from the force-induced tears. He brings his hand up to cup Johnny's cheeks, Johnny instinctively leaning into it. "This is the third time, and all from different places? You're not _that_ unlucky."

"Maybe my stomach isn't agreeing with the mix of food and alcohol." Johnny kisses the palm of his hand. "Don't worry too much, okay? You're going to make yourself sick." Another kiss to his forehead and Johnny snuggling into his chest signals the end of the conversation, a brush off as another inconvenience to line up with the others. But the image of Johnny hunched over a toilet for unknown reasons sticks in his mind undesirably.

The suspicion hovers over like a cloud, making sleep more and more out of reach, so far that he's awake until the sun starts to spill in through the windows, watching it light up Johnny's face in waves. He's awake to hear the soft beep every hour, not on the dot but dispersed at random. It's close and not close, somewhere within the house or maybe there are multiple, in places where conversations are more than likely held.

How the bugs got into their house, slipping right underneath their noses, bothers him. Tightness builds in his skin, gripping until it tears all over, blood on the sheets. Johnny stirs in his hold, the sunlight on his eyelids warm and peeking through his subconscious state. When his eyes open, bright honey and shades of deep forests, a small smile playing on his lips as he whispers good morning, Jaehyun makes sure the blood doesn't touch him, distant enough to not taint him with the urges of bitter intent.)

Ringing breaks through Guanheng's sleep, the standard obnoxious ringtone thankfully ending the snapshots of brown-red dirt recently plaguing his dreams. He stretches out an arm, blindly reaching for his phone on the nightstand and sliding the start call button without even looking at the caller i.d.

“What do you got?” There's no introduction, no need for it when his editor, Dejun, thinks —and rightfully so — there's no one else who would be calling at such a time or really, at all.

A few days had passed since he last touched the story with anything of substance. Guanheng inwardly sighs, knowing if he didn't, Dejun would playfully mock him about what he had to be tired for when he didn't have any work to be tired from. “I got… something.”

“Is ‘something’ going to make you a third times best seller?” Dejun retorts back, always the one for snark.

Guanheng doesn’t say anything, letting the static of the phone fill the silence for him. Then a sigh, a real one from Dejun. “Maybe I should come down to Crooked Hills myself.“

That makes him sit up straighter, sleep suddenly gone from his body. “Why would you do that?”

“It seems my dear writer friend needs some help with his stories, and I’d like to extend my assistance.”

“You don’t need-“

Dejun stops him before he can come up with an excuse. “Yes, I _do_ need to. Your deadline is in a couple months’ time, and what do you have to show for the last two years since your last release? Not even half of the chapters you said you would have!” Rustling comes through, Dejun probably shifting through the never ending stack of papers on his desk. “I’ll be there in a couple days. Hope you have an extra bed.” Final. The two beeps signaling the end of the call telling him as such. Dejun liked doing what he wanted, even if it disrupted everyone else's routine. It's not like he didn't know it annoyed people, mainly Guanheng, but he knew Dejun was doing it with the best interests of the person in mind.

There’s nothing much he can do, not when he knows Dejun would never back down from something he’s already set on doing. Going to spruce up his spare room didn’t take him much time, everything already in order from not being knocked about by any presence, the thin layer of dust wiped off with a wet paper towel. Standing in the doorway, he surveys the room then glances into the hallway behind him and back again. Someone besides himself walking between these walls would be an oddity, so used to it being his breaths and whispers to himself or the small collection he has throughout, gathered over the years.

Guanheng turns on the TV in the living room, background noise for the tension holding his shoulders, and it’s already on the news channel, one of the only stations in the area. His attention would’ve gone to making a cup of tea if not for a picture of a man filling up the screen. From the picture alone, it’s easy to discern the outside qualities, a man full of poise and ethic, but also a man who knows the art of enigmas, as he is one himself. The piercings dotting his ears shamefully captures Guanheng effortlessly, distracted until the picture minimizes to the corner, and the report follows, loud now that he doesn’t have to stare into the deadly intelligent gaze of the man.

_Detective Chittaphon Leechaiyapornkul, better known throughout the force as Ten, has accepted the summons of our police branch from Bangkok to work on the case of the boy found by the lake and should be here within the week. He's a sought out detective all throughout Asia, and it's a wonder why he's chosen to come to our town of Crooked Hills. Little is known about Detective Ten, a rather reclusive man despite the grand reputation following him, but he's to be trusted, and the people of Crooked Hills hope to see justice for the yet unnamed boy who met his untimely end down by the lake._

A detective coming to take over the case? The town must really be shaken up to hire an investigator from so far away. Guanheng ponders, the remote swinging between his fingers near enough to the couch to rub up against the arm. He’s not expecting much, however it’d be swell if he could stumble across this handsome, all-knowing Ten on a supposed walk to the local bakery. It’s a feeble reason to go out to town, decent at best but he could also do with some good bread.

Guanheng goes out with his head up, seeing right through the people and the insignificant sites of the town as he bypasses them. To him, his only objective is to make it to his destination without a wrong turn taken unseen. Anything diverting from his regular route is something not worth his peace of mind.

Guanheng can feel Sicheng’s aura without even physically seeing him come his way, the domineering one that can be overlooked on most occasions, covered up by his saccharine character. Attached to him is a person he hasn’t seen in some time due to their varying lifestyles. Kun is the type to walk around with a smile on his face, despite what weather might be hanging over his head. Drawing nearer, Guanheng can tell Kun isn’t wearing his customary smile, holding Sicheng’s hand with a distance between them, as if it had been awhile since they last touched.

Sicheng’s eyes sparkle as he comes into his view, tugging Kun along with him, harder than need be. “Hey there stranger, where are you headed?”

Guanheng points up ahead in the direction of the bakery. “Just down to get bread. You know I can’t bake for shit.”

Sicheng laughs, a little too loudly. “I do remember that awful attempt at cream puffs. Kun does too, don’t you sweetie?”

It’s a simple question, but Kun’s eyes flicker to Sicheng in irritation then settle on Guanheng with a resigned smile. “How wouldn’t I, you almost poisoned the entire high school staff.”

Guanheng’s cheeks burn at the memory, a small gathering before the school year started during his first year living in Crooked Hills. The faculty had invited him to talk about his books, let him mingle with the teachers and learn from each other. Innocent enough until Guanheng started stressing about bringing just himself and not some type of gift, despite Sicheng’s attempts to calm him down, and ended up destroying his kitchen and many teachers’ stomachs.

Trying to push the conversation away from one of the more humiliating instances of his life, he coughs politely into his fist. “What brings you out here? Shouldn’t you both be teaching right now?

“Day off. We should’ve been on our way to the town over to the science museum, but it was cancelled in light of the whole…” Sicheng twirls his hand around, searching for the word he already knows. “…murder thing. Safety precautions, apparently.” It takes a moment, but Kun scoffs at the remark, looking away to the building across the street.

Rolling his eyes, Sicheng puts his other hand against the side of his mouth, the universal secret telling gesture. “Don’t mind him, he’s a bit miffed we’re missing out on the museum.”

Kun shoots an incredulous look at Sicheng. “You’d be too if you had been waiting for months to go to a historical site.” There’s something not being said by either of them, evident in the roughness of their speech. Sicheng can be harsh from time to time, stinging venom digging into the receiver’s ears, but Kun has never been anything but good-natured. Guanheng would be lying if he said it didn’t trouble him.

“I guess you’re right,” Sicheng hums. “Anyways, we’ll let you continue on with your day.” And he’s hauling Kun in the opposite direction of where Guanheng is headed, grip tight, Kun barely having time to send a wave over his shoulder before they turn the corner. Nothing about the encounter sits right with him, but there isn’t anything that can be done about it.

The bakery is a quaint little thing, tucked between the library and an apartment building. It’s a place that could be missed, if it wasn’t for the abnormally large pumpkin hanging from the extended sign. Sicheng’s younger brother, Chenle, is working the counter today, Guanheng assuming he picked up a shift after school closed for the day. Guanheng doesn’t know much about Chenle other than he was crushing on an older kid a grade above him, which Sicheng told him in utmost alcohol-induced confidence, and he really enjoyed baking, hence the job. But the red rimmed eyes greeting him over the glass display of pastries is unlike his usually cheery disposition.

“Hey… are you okay?”

Guanheng doesn’t normally talk to Chenle besides the words exchanged over whatever item he just bought, so Chenle stares wide-eyed at him stunned, shoulders sinking as he takes in the question. He nods, not even bothering to answer him verbally, and gestures to the menu before him. The smile is watery, and Guanheng wouldn’t think to push him any further. He orders the bread and a drink for while he waits, the fruity concoction in his hands by the time he finishes paying. Leaving Chenle to shoulder the rest of his shift in his current state isn’t what he thinks is morally decent, but he also thinks Chenle wouldn’t appreciate him loitering around the counter.

The bakery is busy at a time like this, most people on break for lunch meaning many tables are full to bursting. There is one table near the entrance, empty except for the singular man with his head down and a black mask over his lower features. As Guanheng steps closer, he recognizes the unmistakable piercings on his ears, exactly like the picture on TV. Guanheng slides into the booth, straw in mouth, much to the man’s bewilderment.

Guanheng is the first to talk, deeming it only fair to. “I’m waiting for some bread. Thought you could use the company,” he says as a way of introduction.

The man, Ten, quirks a neatly trimmed eyebrow, shooting back, “Or you just needed a place to sit.”

“Touché.” Guanheng tips his drink in Ten’s direction before taking a sip, finally noticing the various sheets of paper on the table. From what he can read upside down, it’s nothing too conspicuous, law jargon he’s not sure about. But Ten catches on to what he’s doing, swiping the papers away into one tidy stack. Guanheng tries not to be too disappointed, but then Ten slips the mask down his face, revealing the curled point of his nose, and honest to god, Guanheng would never be upset again if he just got to bite it.

“The name’s Ten, I’m-“ Ten tries to formally introduce himself, but Guanheng beats him to the chase.

“The detective for the murder case. I know.” Where the woefully reticent Guanheng went is beyond him, apparently thrown out the window and kicked to the curb. He hopes there’s a way to regress to that again, but for now, he’ll humor himself with this recent emergence.

Ten fits his back into the curve of the booth, arms crossed almost thoughtfully. “I was going to say visiting the town, but I guess you know all my secrets.”

“Not yet I don’t.” It’s then that Chenle calls his name, bag of bread laying out on the counter. He’s sure the dismay is plain as day on his face because Ten reassures him it’s fine, he’ll be in town for a while, where it’s more than likely they will run into each other again. Guanheng’s barely had a taste, and his taste buds are already begging for more, but he knows there will always be a later.

Change is not something Guanheng took to so easily, and if he did allow it to happen, it was in minuscule amounts. Yet it’s in the air, tangible and thick, that change was coming sooner or later. Whether Ten would be a part of that change wasn’t up to him, although Guanheng kind of wished it was.

With the bag of bread rolls flung over his shoulders, he makes his way back home, the police office slowly coming into view. He stops in front of the door, considering whether to pay Yukhei a visit, maybe share a roll of bread with him. It’s not like he had anything better to do (though, Dejun would beg to differ), so he pushes through the door into the brightly lit office.

There’s not a soul in sight, particularly peculiar even during lunch hour. Not even the receptionist who seems to always be behind the counter is there, leaving Guanheng clueless on where to look for Yukhei.

He doesn’t have to look far because Yukhei’s voice rings out into the still office, somewhere farther into the back. “I can’t contain you,” Yukhei utters, exhaustion evident in his tone.

Another voice speaks next, scoffing in return to Yukhei’s statement. "Of course you can't." The voice was familiar and yet not familiar at all, cold and hard through and through. Then it becomes even more unknowable, soft with affection. "I don't want to endanger you."

"I'm already endangered," Yukhei sighs, and Guanheng can picture him running his hand through his hair in frustration.

"Hello?" Guanheng cuts through their conversation, not sure if he should have been hearing it in the first place. Something clatters to the ground, light but loud in the silence. There’s shuffling not too far from Guanheng, on the opposite side of the wall to the left separating them. Soon, he’s rounding the corner, Yukhei holding a clipboard with hair looking as disheveled as he thought it would.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt. I just wanted to see how you were doing, and… I have bread,” he says shortly and a little dumbly, Guanheng scrambling to offer a roll to Yukhei, who takes it cautiously.

Yukhei hesitates for a second, clearly unsure if he should even be telling Guanheng such news but decides to do it anyway. “If you really want to know. The boy’s friends identified him last night. It was Huang Renjun.” The name doesn’t ring a bell, but Guanheng nods to tell him he understands and to continue. “Kids go missing all the time. They usually turn up within a few days.”

Now_ that_ he doesn’t completely understand. “If that’s the case, why is Renjun so different then?”

Yukhei audibly swallows. “You can’t tell anyone I talked to you.” He’s avoiding the question, and Guanheng wants to believe it’s due to being held to some kind of law enforcement secrecy and not something he wasn’t supposed to be privy to. “Pinky promise?” An odd phrase for a police officer to be asking of him. Guanheng can tell the words slip out without Yukhei recognizing them, so used to saying it. It reminds him of Sicheng and his affinity for them, always asking Guanheng for his pinky over the littlest of things, like the time Sicheng made him promise to have a bag of white rabbit candy the next time he came over. Strange, but endearing all the same.

He takes a hold of the pinky waiting for him, physically feeling the strain lessen in Yukhei’s body. In his relief, Yukhei bites into the bread in his other hand, teeth ripping it into two almost clean pieces. Yukhei smiles through the sponginess of the bread, a replica of Sicheng’s smile covered in the white stickiness of the candy.

_The victim has been identified as Huang Renjun, a senior at Crooked Hills High. He would have graduated at the top of his class and moved to America for his school of choice, Columbia University. Let's hear from some of his classmates and friends._

_Lee Jeno: We went out to go look for him once we realized it was late and he had never come over to Donghyuck’s house just like we always did every Friday night._

_Lee Donghyuck: We didn’t know where he could have gone. Renjun had a special place he liked to go whenever he needed to think, but no one knew where it was, not even Jaemin._

_Na Jaemin: My boyfriend was… a grand character. A little on the quiet side and liked his time alone, but he was the best person I’d ever known. We stayed up the entire night into the next day searching and when we came back home and heard the news well… we knew it had to be him._

_As you can see, a terrible tragedy indeed. A young man taken too soon, leaving behind many people who cared for him. But the question still remains: who killed Huang Renjun?_

Dejun comes into town a couple days later, just like he promised. The thing about Dejun is he blazes like the sun, hot and fast and vital. Guanheng’s home burns in his wake, each object he touches alight with fire, singed at the edges. But Guanheng doesn’t mind putting out the flames, welcomes the smoke infiltrating his lungs and stinging his eyes.

Once upon a time, Guanheng had a crush on his editor. As the only man to enter his life and stay, it was inevitable he would fall, if only a little. Being the first one to read the raw rough drafts of his books enabled the affection, every new meeting in the third largest skyscraper of the city keeping the spark alive. It never occurred to Guanheng to pursue these feelings, unsure of what to do even if he did. He was content to relish in the brief touches of fingers when Dejun passed over contracts for him to sign, content to drink with him in luxurious clubs downtown, Dejun’s arms draped over him as he carried him back to Guanheng’s apartment, content to lie him down on his bed and sleep on the couch himself, content with knowing he had a friend who trusted him like this.

He was content when Dejun told him he didn’t experience attraction like most people, not romantically and not sexually, and he was content to be the friend Dejun told in complete faith. Now, they laugh about Guanheng’s short-lived infatuation, both wrinkling their noses in faux disgust while they dive into the bowl of popcorn sandwiched by their crossed legs.

“Why do you have windchimes inside your home?” Guanheng looks over to where Dejun is pointing at the moon and stars patterned like Jupiter suspended over the entrance to the hallway. They don’t move since there is no air conditioner grate near it to do so, but they will jingle a pretty peal if he walks fast enough underneath them.

Guanheng shrugs, talking around the kernels in his mouth. “Why not?”

Dejun rolls his eyes, so used to Guanheng’s puzzling quirkiness that he doesn’t even bother questioning any further. Spending time together was his favorite to do, even if they did nothing but make jibes at each other and hurl popcorn at the other’s forehead. If Guanheng lets him admit to himself, he did miss Dejun and the sense of existence he breaths into him.

The next day, Guanheng finds himself tripping over cracks in the sidewalk in order to keep up with the pace Dejun has set making his way through the town. Being out and about so often is starting to make him itch, scratching at his arms whenever people step pass them, but he endures Dejun’s need to be tourist-y. On every store door, there’s a paper posted to the wood or metal, a flyer stating if the public had any tips on the murdered boy, to notify police immediately. Dejun finally mentions it as he browses one of the trinket shops, the pebbles in the snow globe in his hand floating to the bottom.

“A murder, huh? Sounds scary.” He shakes the snow globe again, Guanheng watching one of the pebbles get stuck between the chimney and the roof of the house.

“Yeah, it’s been kind of weird around here lately. Understandably so though.” Dejun only tsks in response, setting down the globe for the one next to it mimicking the lake of this town. Shuddering, Guanheng exhales quietly behind Dejun, right before he turns around after paying and takes a hold of his wrist to pull him out of the shop.

Sat upon the fountain before them is a man who wasn’t there prior to them entering the shop, bent over what appears to be a manila folder. At the door alarm dinging at their exit, the man looks in their direction, and Guanheng finds himself making eye contact with the detective. Ten nods in acknowledgement when he sees Dejun pulling Guanheng around the stores in the main square and returns his attention to the paper in his lap. Even such a negligible interaction leaves him a little short of breath, but he attributes it to the obvious attractiveness of the man and not what Ten could possibly offer him.

The fitting rooms of the last store they venture into are outside the shop because of some failure in architectural designing, so Guanheng ends up standing against one of the wooden beams across from them as Dejun tries on multiple flowy shirts. He can hear him rustling about and mumbling to himself about how the shirts fit over his body, and Guanheng can’t help but snort, moving away so Dejun doesn’t hear his muffled laughter.

“… the reason why we moved in the first place.”

Guanheng pauses at the alleyway he’s walked his way by, seeing Kun and Yukhei whispering together in the gloom of the buildings. In an instant, they stop talking, alerted by the presence in the entryway. With a quizzical twist of his eyebrows, Guanheng raises his hand to greet them, but Kun is herding Yukhei away when he catches sight of Guanheng. He’s left with his hand hanging in the air, unsure of how to proceed about this. It’s an odd pairing; Guanheng doesn’t know of how they would even know of each other besides Yukhei being the sheriff and thereby notable. But as Dejun calls him back over to the store, asking what the hell he was doing, he dismisses the event and any thoughts about what it could be with an excuse of _just because_.

Dejun decides to get down to business the next night, snuggling into the throw pillows of his couch for optimum editing. After waving him off so Guanheng doesn’t cause Dejun to lose his concentration, he leaves Dejun to hunch over Guanheng’s laptop, glasses reflecting the garish light, and sets out for one of his midnight walks around the lake to wipe the chalkboard of his mind clean. His hands might be dusty when he returns home, but there will be text in speckled white letters previously not present, and Dejun will be delighted to see as such.

The plopping of rocks being thrown into the water draws his eyes further into the distant. Ten sits at the pier near the halfway mark of the lake with his legs partially submerged into the water, pantlegs folded up to the knee. Gathering a handful of rocks from around the banks, Guanheng makes his way to the pier, lowering himself next to him and placing the rocks in between them. Ten gratefully accepts one, running his pointer finger over the smoothness of the rock before skidding it across the surface of the lake. It skips twice then sinks, Ten huffing at the failed attempt.

“I promise I’m better than that,” he says with another rock ready in his hands.

Grabbing one for himself, Guanheng playfully leans forward until Ten is in his full view. “Prove it to me.”

Ten takes him up on the challenge, rocks splashing all around them, water finding its way onto their skin in their disregard. Somehow, Guanheng is able to best Ten at his own sport, gaining five skips to Ten’s four. He’s victorious, and he beams straight at Ten, who gazes at him with newfound fascination as if he’s not the one with droplets of water on his eyelashes that Guanheng wants to wipe off so he won’t get caught in the dazzling shimmer.

“I win,” Guanheng singsongs, tossing the last rock in his hand, the jagged points digging into the palm.

Ten notices, seizing the rock out of midair and flinging it far past where the other rocks had landed, tuning out Guanheng’s protest. “That you did.”

In retaliation, Guanheng nudges him not too kindly and rejoices in the yelp Ten slips out, clamping a hand over his mouth in embarrassment. They let the quiet drift over them after the snickers have died down, staring out at the still lake in front of them. Guanheng can’t conjure up a moment such as this in his life, subtly charged but mellow, like sour candy transforming into the sweetness you’ve been waiting for. It’s why he doesn’t know how to act, taking the opportunity right next to him without accounting for any repercussions.

“Do you think the killer will do it again?” At the mention of the reason why Ten is even here in Crooked Hills, he stiffens, caught off guard.

“I’d prefer it if they didn’t,” he replies, putting his weight on his hands behind him, and fixates on the sky above them. “It’s a beautiful night, isn’t it?” He changes the subject almost seamlessly, and Guanheng will let him do so, if only this once. He copies his position, letting his hand touch Ten’s for a fleeting second before shifting again.

“I suppose so.” Farther away from the city, the stars twinkle more, the glass of the sky. What would it be like if the stars rained down, covering them in their sheen? Divine and otherworldly, the grace of whomever may be dictating the universe, or cruel and devastating, hellfire extinguishing all crevices of life?

Occasionally peeking over at Ten, Guanheng finds he wouldn’t mind either outcome. They are two strangers in a town grown without them in it, not in need of them. People stick to things they know, a commonality they don’t want to break. It shouldn’t be otherwise for two people like themselves.

-

Sicheng’s always been a little unhinged. Blown out of the lines at the most indescribable words or actions. Lately, it seems to have gotten worse, pushing him until he’s dangling of the cliff’s edge. With him is Yukhei, on the rocks watching him from above. Guanheng sees how they both change, the distance growing between the steps Sicheng took to his home and the steps Guanheng took past the police office.

One day, Dejun comes back late, a tremble in his eyes Guanheng can’t place. Since then, Dejun walks around his home in the middle of the night, awakening him with the whistle of the tea kettle right before it’s hurriedly pulled off the heat. He’ll pace in the living room, then down the hall and back again, unease clear in his footsteps. In the morning, Dejun plods into the kitchen as if he hadn’t spent most of the night wearing trenches into the floorboards.

“I have to tell you something,” Dejun blurts out during breakfast, after another night of Guanheng listening to him roam the house. Guanheng looks up at him over the rim of his tea mug, waiting for him to continue. When Dejun doesn’t speak, he raises his eyebrow at him in question. “Not now, but tonight. I have to go take care of some… business first.” He pokes at his eggs, half eaten, then sets his fork down and picks up his plate to discard of the food and place in the sink. “If I’m not back before…”

Dejun runs the water to fill in his unspoken words. “I’ll be back.” They are for Guanheng’s assurance, but not even he sounds certain, and he doesn’t give Guanheng enough time to ask before he’s out the door with his coat slung over his shoulders.

As he waits the day away, too preoccupied to even ruminate over sitting in front of his computer to try and cough up some written sludge, Guanheng fidgets with the worn key to his childhood home in his room. He kept it tied to a string to dangle above his head while he sleeps, but as he rubs the teeth into the skin of his thumb, he can’t help but think he’s brought an omen upon himself.

The incessant knocking on his door in the wee hours of the morning tells him what he doesn’t want to hear, as Dejun would’ve used the house key given to him. He stares down the door to steel himself, the knocking deafening at this proximity. For all that’s in him, he can’t bear to open the door, knows he can’t face what’s waiting for him, but he knows whoever is on the opposite side won’t leave until he does.

Ten greets him with the look of a man who has dealt out bad news, the sun climbing above his head casting darker shadows on the ones already on his face. “I think you’ll want to see this.”

He’s on the other side of the lake, opposite of where Renjun’s body was found. The killer left Dejun’s eyes open, glassy and unseeing, but facing the tree Renjun laid under. It was done purposefully, just like the coat arranged to drape off his shoulder without a wrinkle in sight. Only when Guanheng peers closer on his knees, not minding the inevitable grass stains, does he see the state of his hands, missing pinkies.

Across from Guanheng is a young man he’s come to recognize from his daily health segments on the city’s TV channel. Dr. Liu Yangyang kneels next to Dejun’s body, avoiding the small portion of the red green gathering under Dejun’s hand. His own goes to close Dejun’s eyes, saving Guanheng from the unnerving stare.

‘He was found last night due to an anonymous tip coming in. The marks around his neck tell of strangulation, more than likely the probable cause of death.” Fisting his hand into the grass, he closes his eyes. He can almost picture Dejun walking around the town, nervous like he had been the entirety of his stay. The murderer, the same one who killed Renjun, coming up from behind him and gagging him. The rest follows, but he can’t bear to think about it any longer, the fear and the pain Dejun must have been experiencing.

Fifteen breaths, fifteen rises and falls of his chest through the warm hand on his shoulder is what it takes to get a hold of himself, bring him back to the lake and to face Ten again on his feet. Yangyang had left them during his time on the ground, but Ten still speaks in a hushed tone.

“I know this makes the case personal now but promise me you won’t go looking after the killer.” Ten pauses before holding out his hand, every finger curled down except for his pinky. He makes a cursory glance at Ten’s face, the seriousness in his expression causing him to look back down at the pinky waiting for him.

“What’s up with all these pinky promises lately?” Guanheng whispers more to himself, not expecting Ten to answer him. But he does and it does nothing to settle the confusion.

“They hold a lot more power than you think.” What kind of power he means, Guanheng can’t even begin to fathom, but he follows along like he had previously, taking the pinky in his and strongly shaking. Though this one has less vigor than the two others, a comment he won’t be making to Ten.

Sicheng comes over later that night, carefully light knocks on his door. “I heard about Dejun.” The shake in his hands is less, more controlled. Guanheng doesn’t miss it. “How are you feeling? Do you need someone to stay with you right now?” He sounds sincere, if anything, but it seems more like he’s digging a finger into a newly created wound.

Everything with Sicheng is calculated, from his actions and expressions to his words, and this encounter is no different. Guanheng agrees nonetheless, letting Sicheng wound his arms around his middle on the couch. Even when the wood of the couch digs into the underside of their thighs and backs, neither of them protest, Sicheng’s little snore eventually sounding out in his right ear.

Of course, he abandons him in the early morning, saying he needs to go back home to get ready for work, and Guanheng is left to his own devices, whatever those may be.

Sleep but not sleep. Eyes closed, only a break from having to stare at his ceiling, the uncomfortable pinch leaving, if only for a moment. When he is able to get a couple hours of real sleep, lulled by the quiet hum of his laptop, it’s filled with the same blood stained dirt and the latest addition of pinkies floating in his tea.

At the briefest thought, his skin crawls, trying to escape from clinging to his rattling bones. What can soothe it, if not his home and the books lined up on the shelves failing to keep him occupied, then the site haunting each blink of his eyes.

The lake is void of people, as expected during the dead of night, the buzzing of insects making it seem much more alive than it actually is. Guanheng finds himself drawn to the tree where Dejun was, taking in the grass growing back not flattened by the weight of his body. A twig snaps not too far in front of him, Guanheng’s neck cracking with the speed at which he looks up. Ten stares back at him, apologetic about disturbing him, but approaches him first anyways, over to where Guanheng stands with the trees dancing in the gentle wind. “Can’t sleep?”

“You could say that,” Guanheng replies, eyes drifting over Ten’s lithe body partially hidden by a beige jacket. It’s too easy imagining the light of the night illuminating his bare torso, Guanheng’s hands roaming freely, gracing over the goosebumps erupting from his heated touch.

“I get it. These murders have been hard on the town. People have been demanding answers we can’t provide, and we’re losing the public’s trust.” Ten shakes his head, almost like he’s ridding himself of the hounding thoughts. “But never mind that. How’ve you been holding up?”

The question almost repulses him; how is he doing when his friend has been taken from him when he should be there alive with him, pestering him about his stupid novel and the person who did it is still out there, gallivanting in the streets without a care in the world. He doesn’t want to talk about Dejun or Renjun or the killer. He wants a distraction in such a god forsaken situation as this one, one he can find in Ten. A distraction that will draw him in nearer to the enticing sharp thorn he can’t wait to prick his finger on.

"Why do they call you Ten?"

Avoiding the question, he decides to go on another route, to something he has wondered about once or twice. He brings himself closer to Ten, a step and then another until he’s directly in front of him. He hadn’t considered the fact Ten might not be interested in a diversion from his set path, but Ten doesn’t object to the dwindling gap, and their breath stalls in between each other, the stale air of death wedged in the space left by their lips.

"Apprehended ten people of high status in a raid before. No one had ever done it and the name kind of stuck,” Ten whispers, indulging him for this moment with a sneak peek as his eyes sweep over his face.

Guanheng doesn’t know what he was expecting, but he doesn’t let the surprise show. “Incredible.” His lip brushes against Ten’s at the word, asking, pleading even, and Ten gives in, pushing gingerly. Though he appreciates the gentleness, he didn’t come to exchange tender kisses underneath the trees that witnessed two bodies being dragged to sit next to them. Pressing against him harder causes Ten to stagger, hands coming up to his waist to steady himself. He opens up for Ten, tongue pulling a song out of his teeth. Despite what surrounds them, Guanheng has never tasted anything more decadent.

Heavy. The atmosphere grows heavy the more they kiss, the weight of Ten’s tongue in his mouth is heavy, the hands on his waist feel like cement sticking to him. Comforting, to be grounded but also suffocating. He can’t be in this place a moment longer.

He tilts his head back to remove himself from Ten, though not far enough away for Ten to not be touching him. “Can I stay with you tonight?” He speaks without thought, going off of impulses he’s never before followed.

A bird lands in the branches above them, beady marble eyes watching as Ten noses his way along Guanheng’s jaw, the barest touch of his lips. “If that’s what you need.”

Guanheng has no fucking idea what he needs, but what he wants is company and if Ten is so generously inclined to give it to him, he’ll agree. So he nods, a slow almost mechanical crook of his neck, not breaking eye contact with the bird. Ten places his hands on either side of his cheeks, gradually tilting his head back down to meet his own eyes. Guanheng can tell he’s searching for him, and when he’s sure he’s all there, he lowers his hand to take Guanheng’s and leads him away. After thirty steps, he turns to see the bird land in the spot they stood, beak pecking at the ground long since soaked with blood.

Ten’s motel is modest, the bed in the center of the room messily unmade and the small kitchen across from it strangely spotless. The room seems unlived in yet lived in at the same time, and Ten does nothing to make the room glow alive, out of place and out of zeal. While he sets the kettle to boil, pulling out the motel provided mugs, Guanheng watches him from the little dining table, the lean muscles of his arms rippling through his thin shirt as he reaches into the cabinets. A man far from home, making tea for the author who is too curious for his own good.

“Why did you choose this case out of so many others?” With his mind running, he can’t stay quiet, distraction be damned.

Ten leans his hands back against the counter behind him and shrugs, mouth curved to the side. “I felt that’s what was best. Nothing about the case sat right with me. You could say I was also intrigued by the secretive quality of the town.”

“Every town has secrets, and so does every person living in it,” Guanheng murmurs, absentmindedly drawing circles and loops into the table with his finger.

“What’s yours?” He thinks of Hendery, the teen with a dead mother and an imprisoned father, trying to make sense of his world through new ones far away from the realm he lives in. Then it shifts to dirt and dried blood, settling into his skin, his clothing. He thinks of the boy, Renjun, sitting against the tree in a position to look like he was napping, if Guanheng forgoes the missing pinkies and the blood still dribbling past his lips. It’s only a couple of seconds, but his eyes focus back on Ten, a little spellbound, a little drawn in. He asks with complete genuineness, though Guanheng isn’t certain he can return the favor.

The kettle shrieks behind Ten’s back, neglected in order to hear what precious mystery Guanheng is hiding beneath the layers of a collected author. “I’m not sure yet.”

-

(Numbers are what Jaehyun is good at. He always had been, unsure of what to do with what was deemed a talent. Going into college undecided didn’t last very long when he met Johnny in one of their introductory classes, studying to be a lawyer. The thought of criminal investigation fascinated him, to say the least, Johnny usually rambling about one of his criminology classes in between breaks. One day it slips by that there are people who study the statistics of crimes, numbers he can examine, trends he can follow, reports he can create.

Numbers are sound, or as sound as the person computing them. Numbers are the foundation of the world, whether humans like it or not.

Numbers lead Jaehyun to the man in question, the serial numbers on the bug trackable, and tricking him into grabbing a drink under the bluff of being a client in need of a lawyer.

There’s a lull between platters of meat being brought out to continue grilling on the grate, Jaehyun placing his left hand on his right elbow as he serves the man his eleventh drink before he dives in.

“Did you think I wouldn’t notice?”

The man blinks slowly at him, alcohol induced stupor reducing his motor skills. “I beg your pardon?”

“Your little game you were trying to play? You know, the one that involves killing my husband?”

All color drains out of his face in an instant, ruddy cheeks gone pale. _Bingo_. The man doesn’t even try to deny it, stuttering out, “H-how did you find out?”

“It doesn’t matter.” The bottle clinks on the table as he sets it down, lost in the ruckus of other’s conversations and sizzling meat. “What matters is you are about to meet the same fate you attempted to incite in my husband.” Jaehyun stands up and bows, biding him a farewell and leaving the man to be found in the early hours of the morning, alcohol poisoning the supposed cause of death. Back home, Jaehyun dumps the entire jug of strawberry banana juice in the sink, twelve seconds of the drain guzzling down the juice.

The next day at dinner when Johnny pouts at the sight of his favorite juice missing in the fridge, Jaehyun blames it on knocking over the container in his carelessness and promises to buy a new one tomorrow, Johnny forgetting the loss of his juice the moment Jaehyun presses his lips against his own in assurance.)

They didn’t do much but talk and kiss, the drag of Ten’s fingers on Guanheng’s scalp eventually settling his mind into sleep. He wakes up to a dark room, the curtains pulled over the single window, Ten’s hand still in his hair. Nothing in him tells him to stay, the previous night taking the edge off. Slipping out unnoticed is easier said than done, Ten roused by the shift of Guanheng out of the bed.

“Is everything alright?” he asks with a voice gruff from sleep, blearily blinking up at Guanheng. Staring at Ten between the sheets alights something akin to longing in his chest, the domestic scene briefly raising peace in him before he tampers it down. There’s no room for notions of that such nature in his life, even if he wanted there to be.

“I think I should be home,” is what he answers with, unwilling to show the truth.

Ten doesn’t argue with him, instead walking Guanheng to the door and pressing a feather light kiss to his cheek once he’s beyond the threshold. In his mind, he can see himself teetering forward in his haste to return the favor, arms wrapped about Ten’s neck, but he turns around feeling like he was burned.

The rising sun is in his eyes as he walks, blinding him as he goes through the parking lot. Yet the glare doesn’t hide the looming figure of Sicheng outside the motel, leaning against one of the light poles. Locking eyes does nothing to deter Sicheng, staring straight at him unphased. Guanheng can’t even take a step towards him because Sicheng is walking away, a spring in his own step. Apprehension filters into his skin, although he’s not able to comprehend why, and he heads home to curl underneath the key in his room, hollow and cold without a warm body next to him.

Life goes on like that, staying home to lie in bed or the couch, laptop in front of him in case he has the will to write. The TV flickers on sometimes, only to be turned off once they start discussing the murders and their trail going dry. Occasionally, there are soft knocks at his front door, but he doesn’t bother to get up, and the person, whomever they may be, eventually leaves after a few minutes. Nights fall and rise, and Guanheng follows the moon through the window, partially covered by trees. He counts the days, wondering when he’ll feel something, anything away from the monotonous drone taking over.

The moon is a waning crescent hanging in the sky, its light making the skin on his arm a pale white. Everything wavers at the thumping on his door, stirring him out of his mind. The door trembles underneath the pressure, adamant on Guanheng opening the door, so unlike the careful knocks from before. He thinks, if he were to ignore the person, it’d be longer than the range of three to five minutes the previous person lasted, and frankly, Guanheng doesn’t have the patience to wait for the new person to go away.

Opening the door to see Sicheng on the other side perturbs him about as much as any other day, which is to say not a lot. Sicheng walks in with purpose, straight to the kitchen table to stand with his hands wrapping around the top of the chair. Guanheng glances between him and the door letting in the cool night air, fleetingly considering running into the front yard far away from what’s about to transpire but closes the door to the silence.

Guanheng chooses to sit in the chair across from Sicheng and begins to count the drips of hardened melted wax around the candles in the center of the table. Miniature skeletal hands hold the candles together, and with Sicheng boring holes into his head, he counts each bone of the hands after he finishes with the drips of wax facing him. He’s on the twenty third bone, a metacarpal on the left hand, when Sicheng clears his throat, Guanheng finally looking at him to see he’s watching him with amusement.

“I saw you coming out of that detective’s room. You know that, and I know that _you_ know that.” Sicheng points at Guanheng, and then points to himself and back again. “But I think the public would think it’s unusual to see you two together. You seemingly have nothing in common, so there would be no reason for your paths to cross.”

Guanheng can see where this is going, but dear god, he doesn’t want to believe what Sicheng is alluding to. Instead, he plays along, hoping this will all turn out to be some sick con Sicheng wants to act out of boredom. “You appear to have put a lot of thought into this, Sicheng.”

There’s a wickedness about the upturn of his lips, slight and almost nonchalant. “I'm just curious, is all. You were very taken by this case.” Sicheng slowly circles around the table, coming to a stop behind Guanheng. He leans down until his mouth is pressed right into his ear, lips ghosting over the lobe. “Are you sure you aren't directly involved, Mr. Huang?”

One breath, two breaths. He lurches away from Sicheng. “Excuse me?”

“Don’t be daft. We both know you don’t remember where you were that night. It’s a little suspicious, don’t you think?”

Appalled, Guanheng hisses through his teeth, “Are you accusing me of murdering the boy?” At the words, he stops, a key slides into place, clicking as it’s unlocked. Fuzziness surrounds the memory, but it’s clear enough to make out the lake to his right, to his left, the tree and body splashed across the news station for the last few months. Red on his shirt, the fresh brightness of newly spilled blood. Sicheng kneeling in front of the boy, gloved hands touching his neck for a pulse. The same gloved hand poking his glasses, telling him of the no longer beating heart.

All of the tenseness leaves his body, deflating as soon as it had come. “Why didn’t you tell me you saw me that night?”

A switch flicking on. Accusatory Sicheng gone in a blink of the eye, replaced by the kind Sicheng he knew. “I wanted to protect you. You’re all alone in this town, who’s there to look after you but me? However…” Sicheng bends down to be eye level with him, voice low like he’s trying to avoid scaring Guanheng. “Now that you remember, I think it’s best you turn yourself in. Give the Huang family some peace.” He’d want that for himself, he _did _want that for himself, but life never goes as planned

Sitting across from Ten in an unmarked room and hard chair transports him to the morning of his mom’s death. With the way Ten’s watching him like he doesn’t know him, an animal ready to strike out of defense, it’s no wonder Ten becomes faceless, a blank slate.

Why they treated him as a suspect, Guanheng never figured out. Maybe they thought his dad told him of his plans, let it all collapse in a moment of trust and foolhardiness. But he knew nothing, and he spent the day talking to a man he can’t remember the face of. Everything blurs into the puddle of blood his mom laid in, unmoving eyes fixated on a spot beyond this world. The man speaks to him, and Guanheng answers, cotton tongue in his mouth, wishing he was anywhere else but there.

They let him go with the guise everything would be handled without Guanheng’s aid, but he caught sight of the cars following him on his walks to school or the store or parked down the block of his house. It was a precautionary, he’d fumble, and they would catch him in the act, but fuck, did Guanheng want to be left alone.

Technically, he was by now alone, teens not allowed near him and his nonexistent family, but people still stared and talked; he was, without a doubt, the spectacle of the city. He needed true solitude, something he could find in writing, send himself to a whole different place.

His writings used to be whimsical, fantasy worlds filled with eccentric plants and animals and people. It wasn’t until after his mother’s death did he turn to plots darker, more cynical, his mind in a completely altered psyche. Numbers abruptly following him everywhere he went, from the moment he was awoken by the sound of the front door crashing in, outraged shouts at seven in the morning on the dot. He saw numbers in the steps he took around the now empty house, in the steps around the faint stain he could never totally get out of the wooden floor. He saw numbers in the slices of the knife gliding through his food of choice for the day, shining with water or the dull pink from raw meat. Sometimes, he’d tilt the knife upward and count the seconds it took for the liquid to drip down to the hilt, entranced until the drop spreading across his skin jerked him out of it.

The numbers never lied, never fooled him, unless he wanted them to. But he craved for an escape from them too, away from the flashing figures causing disorder in his head.

An inkling tells him his writings can’t stay in the lines of his journal if he wants that, and it’s right, for the most part. Sicheng once told him it’s the found attention, providing a distraction. That maybe, a small part of him basks in it, seeks it out in unknown faces. Guanheng isn’t too sure about that or if he’s just lying to himself. But he knows he doesn’t want attention from his father; he severed that connection as soon as the knife plunged into his wife. Guanheng makes sure none of his published books make it to the one city jail he stays in; he had the money to do so. And even if one did, a changed name would be unrecognizable to his father. Ironic how he ended up behind the bars, in a place he tried hard to avoid at all costs.

The holding cell is different from the room he was questioned in, in that he can see more, more of the office’s personality and the people passing by. Yukhei pauses at the door, folders in hand bending under the sudden pressure applied. Remorseful is the only word Guanheng could think of to describe the expression falling over Yukhei’s face before he schools it and keeps walking.

Ten’s stationed outside the cell at his desk, hair falling into his eyes as he fills out the report on Guanheng. A minute passes, his pen hovering over the paper, eyebrows scrunched together in question.

“Something isn’t adding up,” Ten sighs, and Guanheng watches him slowly wander over to peer at him through the bars. “What aren’t you telling me?”

For once, Ten’s gaze makes Guanheng squirm in his seat on the bench. It all goes back to Sicheng, every moment Guanheng has had in relation to the murders, and it’s the only thing he can count on to free him from his own confession. Reconsidering his statement would mean incriminating Sicheng, and with nothing else to go by but his intuition, the uncertain words roll out of his mouth. “I think it’s Sicheng. He’s the one who told me to confess even though he knew for so long. And he has these slip ups, minuscule ones people shouldn’t be able to notice. I almost didn’t notice.” Guanheng stands up to clutch at the bars, face not too far away from Ten’s. “Please, you have to believe me.”

Ten’s face doesn’t move an inch, unconvinced. “Why should I?”

Guanheng isn’t sure he can give a good enough reason for Ten to. They don’t know each other well enough for Ten to determine his habits and his personality. Ten doesn’t owe him anything either, so there’s no incentive to release him. At this point, Guanheng might as well be grasping at straws because he’s playing a lost game.

“I can’t tell you why. You have to decide that for yourself.”

The eyes searching his face remind him of the night they kissed, looking for something inside of Guanheng he’s not even sure is there. Maybe it’s the desperation Guanheng is sure is coming off of him in waves, or maybe Ten has sympathy for him somewhere deep inside him because he’s unlocking the door, swinging it open to clang against the other side. Ten moves aside, gesturing towards his desk, and Guanheng cautiously takes a step out, one foot in front of the other until he’s at the neatly arranged desk.

“You have to listen to absolutely everything I say. Is that clear?” Ten addresses him.

Guanheng’s positive his neck is going to pop off with how fast he nods, and Ten turns away to hide the small smile trying to break out.

A hundred minutes. A hundred minutes is all the time Ten gave him to gather enough information to indict Sicheng with the murders, and then his entire team will descend upon the house, flies getting tangled in the spider’s web. Guanheng’s the main course, a micro audio recording device pinned between his belt and his pants to hopefully go unnoticed or the entire set up will be ruined, and Guanheng is swallowed whole.

_Keep him talking_, Ten instructed him. They always liked to talk, running their mouths wanting to be heard until they said too much. Sicheng trusted Guanheng to some extent, or that’s what both him and Ten wanted to believe.

He made a promise to Ten to never go looking for the killer, but here he is, off of Ten’s own accord, four hard knocks on the door. Guanheng only has to wait six counts of his breathe for the door to swing open. The sight of Guanheng on his doorstep must not be what Sicheng was expecting, the tiniest of twitches squinching his eyelid. Sicheng leans against the doorframe, arms crossed stiffly. “So they let you out.”

Shrugging, Guanheng tries to feign indifference. “There wasn’t much they could keep me in for.”

“Pity.” He leaves the door open, not bothering to welcome Guanheng in, but he steps in anyways, shutting the door with a definite click. He’s been inside Sicheng’s home only a couple of times before, Sicheng usually coming over to his home instead. So peering out the window while Sicheng prepares their tea to the plant with a thin stalk, white flowers all hanging upside down, bowed heads grieving, is new.

Tinkling of glass cups on chipped plates sound out as Sicheng places their tea on the dinner table and takes note of where Guanheng’s gaze lies. “Do you like the angel’s trumpet?”

Guanheng hums, teacup brushing his lips. “They’re pretty, but there’s a sadness about them.”

“Funny, Huang Renjun said the same,” Sicheng muses pleasantly, an afterthought.

The teacup halts in its movements, liquid on the cusp. Sicheng has his back towards him, rummaging around for sugar, and Guanheng prays the chair doesn’t scrap against the floor when he sets his cup down to pass his hand over Sicheng’s own on the table. _Don’t take any risks_, Ten said as he pushed the white powdered substance into his hands, and Guanheng would have to have a death wish not to listen.

Sicheng continues to ramble, not minding the hush that has taken Guanheng. “Did you know they can be quite deadly? It’s hard to tell the dosage in a cup of tea, but if you bundle all parts, leaves, roots, petals, into boiling water, I think it’s enough to send someone over the edge.”

Bringing his hand back towards him, he closes the cap and shoves the small tube back into his jeans. “Is that what you did to Renjun?”

Sugar in hand, Sicheng returns to the table smiling that damned smile. “He was a sweet boy. I’m sure the hallucinations weren’t all too kind to him though.” The spoon plinks against his cup repeatedly, off beat. “He made a promise to my brother he couldn’t keep. So I figured he shouldn’t keep his pinkies.”

“Or his teeth?”

His laugh glitters in the air, shards of glass raining down. “Hm, that was just for fun. Chenle liked his smile the best, and ruining it seemed like the only option to make him forget.”

The manner in which Sicheng talks about the boy, apathetic, no contrition for what he’s done, sends a chill through his skin, but he has to admit, this was going better than Guanheng expected. There was no way of telling if Sicheng was on to him or if he really was waiting for someone to spill to, but he continues anyway. “Did you kill Dejun too?”

At the mention of Dejun, Sicheng shrinks into himself the slightest, almost distressed. Almost. “A shame. He heard too much. I had to.”

Guanheng can feel his composure cracking, heading towards the window to conceal the tears trying to build. The angel’s trumpet sways with the breeze, so close to the glass, so close to Guanheng, but still separated. Wiping a hand over his face, he asks, “Why are you even telling me all this?”

“Oh honey, don’t you know I never intended to keep you alive?”

He shouldn’t have turned his back. The pan is felt before it’s seen, a sickening bang sending Guanheng to the floor. An ache behind his ears travels across the back of his head to his neck, and he shuts his eyes against it, Sicheng’s shoes appearing in his fading vision.

When he comes to, he realizes he’s blacked out long enough for Sicheng to drag him into a bleak room with a couple of tables and mirrors and tie him to the only chair in the space. No inch of him can move, intricate knots done to keep him in place.

“I had to get Renjun from running somehow. You made this so much easier.” In his hand, an object gleams, the light disorienting as it bounces with Sicheng’s movements towards him. It’s not until he’s upon him that Guanheng realizes it’s a regular chef’s knife, and the reality of the situation sinks in. Multiple sides of a person, not knowing which one people will see today, but this is one Guanheng would have never guessed was part of Sicheng, willing to kill if the moment allowed for it.

Guanheng wonders if the Renjun boy felt like this when Sicheng sliced off his pinkies. The knife wiggles precariously into his skin, the first thin layer breaking underneath the pressure. It's only a sting but it doesn't last long, Sicheng pushing his bodyweight into the knife, sliding through his bone with the ease of chopping vegetables for supper, the crunch one Guanheng would never forget. A metallic taste fills his mouth, his tongue suffering so Sicheng doesn't gain the satisfaction of knowing Guanheng was pained enough to groan out.

He takes it in stride, seeing his pinky plucked by Sicheng’s gloved fingers and tossed behind his shoulder without a care. Sicheng brings the knife up to his face, close enough to kiss. “Should I leave you with one pinky? What do you think?” The knife is back in Guanheng’s direct line of vision, the tip just touching his nose. He can smell his own blood on it.

“No answer? Having a missing finger seems mysterious, right? A backstory no one knows, but are surely so curious about, too curious, it’s almost eating up at them.” Slowly, Sicheng drags the knife from his nose to his chin, digging it in enough to feel the initial slit open.

With Guanheng not speaking, a pout mars Sicheng’s face, one he used to think was cute, but now bubbles fear. “You’re no fun. At least Renjun had attitude.”

He pauses to observe Guanheng, a fish in a bowl. “Perhaps I should do something different with you. Pinkies are great and all, but a guy gets bored eventually.” Innocence paints the perfect picture, pseudo interest in the rest of Guanheng’s body as if he hadn’t decided where to aim before he even opened his front door to him.

“The chest is always good.” The knife slashes through the front of his shirt, careful not to make any unintended marks, but quick enough for the fabric to be frayed and zig-zagging. Thin lines in the space between his ribs, the sting running shocks down his legs and up his arms. Sicheng isn’t doing this with the intention of ending his life, but rather to play with him, letting Guanheng feel seconds away from being flayed open, on edge. Blood trickles in rivulets on his stomach, pooling in a strip where his skin meets his pants. He focuses on the necklace dangling around Sicheng’s neck, a scorpion poised to strike, very fitting for someone who has poison running through their veins.

Forever passes by, or maybe it’s no time at all, but the carving lessens, the arch of his arm lowers, sluggish. Falling from his fingers, the knife clatters to the ground, unable to grip it anymore. The noise alerts Guanheng’s lethargic mind, enough to absorb the image of Sicheng crumpling to his knees

“What the hell did you put in my drink?” It’s not hard for Sicheng to assume correctly, the only interaction where Guanheng could’ve pulled it off.

Guanheng tries not to show the grimace he wants to make at what he’s done. “Rohypnol.”

The name takes a second to be recognized, panic beginning to creep into his eyes. “You roofied me?”

“It was the only way to get you to shut up.” Immediately, Sicheng shoves two fingers weakly into his throat in what Guanheng knows is a futile attempt. He gags seven times, face reddening from the force, and on the eight, Guanheng decides to stop his efforts. “That probably won’t work either. You’re smart enough to know how it goes.”

A scoff is muffled by his fingers. “Bastard.” Sicheng removes his fingers from his mouth, drool slipping past his lips down his chin. “I underestimated you.”

“There’s nothing that could’ve proved otherwise.” The familiar sound of a door slamming to the ground echoes out, along with many footsteps running about the house. Time’s up. Guanheng doesn’t shout to lead them his way, using the few seconds he has for one last question. “You were my friend.”

Sicheng’s head now rest on the floor and hands beside it, dazed but still able to utter clearly, “Looks can be deceiving, darling. Especially for those you love.”

The door burst open, Yukhei the first to step in with his weapon drawn, the others following in after him. Upon seeing the scene in front of him, he stops in his tracks, regarding Sicheng for a moment too long with the aura of a man who’s lost, then orders another officer out of Guanheng’s line of sight to handcuff Sicheng. Yukhei ignores the stare Guanheng can see is on his back and approaches him instead, promptly snipping at the rope away from the knots. One glance at Guanheng’s pained face to his hand is all it takes for him to stop and remember what comes first.

“Yangyang, your assistance is needed,” Yukhei radios in. Within seconds, Yangyang is through the door, surveying the room before spotting Guanheng being untied, and hurries over to examine the damage done.

“Might be able to reattach that. It’s a pretty clean cut,” states Yangyang, wrapping up his abdomen and the nub where his pinky should be in gauze to stop the bleeding until they could take him to the hospital. Dizziness washes over Guanheng as Yangyang helps him up, the blood rushing to his limbs and head. With the help of Yangyang, they make it past the scene officers, past the pan on the table, chairs not pushed in, and the scuff marks on the stairs from Guanheng’s boots as he was dragged down to a basement. A makeshift grave he barely escaped.

There’s already reporters, dozens of them waiting on the property. They must have swarmed to all the police cars in one place, deductive reasoning in their favor for once. Barricade tape blocks them off, officers leaving their questions unanswered as they zip about the perimeter. The proceedings are reminiscent of that morning, but he’s viewing it from the inside now and not the outside. Gone is the teen who knows nothing, the unknown tearing his organs into shreds, replaced by the adult who can be useful for once.

“Guanheng!” calls a voice, loudly to be heard over the din. Guanheng hadn’t registered how close the ambulance Yangyang was leading him towards was to the police car supposed to be hauling Sicheng away. Yangyang lightly pulls on his arm to guide him away as Guanheng pauses, contemplating the ramifications of letting Sicheng speak to him one last time. Patting the hand hugging his arm, he decides to face him as he’s hustled into a police car headed for the bigger city jail, ready for every word Sicheng will throw at him and their intentions.

“Send me your book when it’s completed. I’m _dying_ to know what happens with Johnny and Jaehyun,” he giggles like it’s an inside joke, like he didn’t kill two people with a third on the way. Ten pushes his head into the vehicle not unkindly but with enough force to get him to close his mouth.

Turning around, he catches Kun on the other side of the barricade tape releasing Yukhei’s hand, casting a glance at Guanheng before making a hasty exit, and he finally gets it. Sicheng and Kun and Yukhei. The furtive glances and secret words, time spent together out of touch from the public. All those moments he’s seen them not too far from each other. Always near.

He goes to stand tall next to Yukhei, forming a wall Sicheng can no longer pass. Yukhei opens his mouth after a few seconds, an explanation ready for Guanheng. “Dejun heard them fighting behind the bar. Sicheng and Kun. Kun was so _angry_ about what Sicheng did, how he couldn’t keep himself in check.” He pauses to take a shaky inhale. “I’m sorry I didn’t do anything to stop him.”

Yukhei thought he was doing what was best for Sicheng by keeping it under wraps, and for that, Guanheng can’t blame him. It’s said under his breath, exhaled into the air between Guanheng and Yukhei. "I won't tell if you don't." His left pinky is extended behind his back, away from the reporters, away from the eyes, away from Sicheng watching knowingly through the tinted police car windows. It's six counts of his pinky facing the world alone, and then a sigh of release when Guanheng feels the familiar curve of someone's pinky against his.

“Please. He doesn’t need that.” Guanheng doesn’t have to look at Yukhei to know he’s talking about Kun. With Sicheng on his way to prison, Yukhei can’t protect him anymore. But he can still protect Kun to the best of his ability.

“No one does.” The car finally takes off down the road, Guanheng averting his eyes so he doesn’t have to see Sicheng’s face turning the other way. Leaving them to go back to their lives without a mark. Instead, he sees Ten observing him from his stance near the road, surrounded by the media but choosing to ignore the commotion in favor of Guanheng. He doesn’t know if he has anything left to offer Ten, if they could go back to that lonely night spent together. In a different timeline, he thinks, perhaps they could’ve been something other than pursuits in the dark, the blue lines of the sky on his old tea pot filling in to be complete.

-

(Weeks pass without disturbance, Jaehyun goes into work every day, and there’s no one coming up to his desk to fire him or police walking him away in handcuffs. He is questioned once the day after, seeing as he was the last person seen with the man, but he shakes his head, saying the man reassured him multiple times he would get home safe, Jaehyun never once thinking he wouldn’t get home at all.

“You didn’t have to do that.”

With the problem taken care of and no fear of trials and tribulations ahead, confiding in his husband was the next and only step he knew he had to take. Jaehyun was never good at keeping secrets.

“You’re a fool if you think I would’ve let him get away with it.”

Johnny has his eyebrows furrowed, twirling the noodles on his plate with his chopsticks absentmindedly. “The police could have-“

It’s not jarring that Johnny is more concerned about the possible consequences Jaehyun could have faced rather than one of his coworkers attempts at ridding him from the law firm for good out of envy. Reaching over the table, Jaehyun stops Johnny’s hands with his own, cradling his fingers. “I _am_ the police.” He maneuvers the chopsticks out of his hands and sets them down on the plate. “Look babe, it’s over and you can relax now. No more worries, okay?”

Johnny sighs, shoulders visibly lowering, resigned and compliant. “I should be saying that to you.”

Jaehyun leans back in his chair with a glint in his eyes, legs beginning to spread. Conversation back in control. “Then come over here and say it.”

The numbers in his head have settled to a dull roar instead of the crashing clamor it was for so long.)

The books closes with a snap, loud and unnerving in such a bare room, but it doesn’t bother him. Nothing really bothers him here. “I guess some people get a happy ending after all,” he purrs out just in time for the guard to start tapping at the rusty bars of his cell, the same one as always, key sliding into place to unlock and escort him to dinner. He’s slow just to piss them off, smoothing out the wrinkles of the bedsheet and placing the book on top for display, hands going up and down the spine to feel the new crease there. He doesn’t miss the eyes watching his every move, catching the hunger within them. What’s a little fun, if Sicheng lets him take a bite.

He can play this game. He’s never the mouse.

**Author's Note:**

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